<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>give me back my reason to believe by chasingforeverandaday</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26840350">give me back my reason to believe</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingforeverandaday/pseuds/chasingforeverandaday'>chasingforeverandaday</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>forest love, forest lass [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Biased Narrator, Childhood Friends, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, House Stark Family Feels (ASoIaF), Implied Sexual Content, Jon Snow Knows Nothing, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow knows way more than he wants to, Marriage, Sexual Tension, Three-Eyed Raven Bran Stark, but his big sister loves him anyway, creepy bran is creepy, not particularly Dany friendly</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:51:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,155</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26840350</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingforeverandaday/pseuds/chasingforeverandaday</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Gendry can open his mouth again and ruin everything, Arya strides closer and punches him in the shoulder with all of her strength, causing him to yelp in shock and recoil slightly. “Arya, what–”</p><p>Jabbing a finger in his face, she declares, “That was for leaving me!” and then proceeds to launch herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and letting her feet dangle in the air as she embraces him. Muffled into his neck, she finishes, “And that was for coming back.”</p><p>-/-/-</p><p>Events in Winterfell are stretched out quite a lot, and certain characters are a lot more in touch with their own feelings. That's right, it's season 8 fix it time!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arya Stark/Gendry Waters</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>forest love, forest lass [8]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1353406</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>206</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>give me back my reason to believe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Oh look! It's the season 8 AU I've been promising forever! It's done, after I missed like three self imposed deadlines! Yay!</p><p>Okay, that's probably enough exclamation points. In any case, this has been really fun to write, kind of a major fuck you to canon that doesn't even cover the entirety of the season, but pretty much just the Arya/Gendry storyline in Winterfell. But I covered like four episodes, so technically that's a majority of the season and it's my fic, so... yeah. Liberties were definitely taken in regards to the layout of Winterfell, but a) I just really didn't feel like finding a map and b) I feel like they changed season by season anyways.</p><p>I will warn you that the Bran section is structured rather oddly, but the result is how I decided to interpret the Bran/Three Eyed Raven thing, so let me know how you think it went. I've never actually tried to write him in depth before, let alone from his/their POV, so this was an interesting challenge. Not sure I'd go the same route again, but experimenting was fun.</p><p>Title is from "Come and Save Me" by Gloriana, because for some reason I was really feeling this random country song on my playlist. </p><p>I love reading comments, so please leave your thoughts, opinions, and interpretive dance in the box below!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Something strange was going on in Winterfell, and unlike all the other oddities occurring within the walls, it had nothing to do with the tense alliance with the DRagon Queen or the ever approaching army of the dead.</p><p>Sansa had never expected to see her little sister quite this besotted over a <em> boy </em>, not that she would ever describe her as such aloud (she valued her life after all). Arya was the girl determined never to fall in love, she’d spent years telling their mother, their father, their septa, everyone in Winterfell that she’d never marry some lord, wouldn’t be just a lady, an ornament to be shown off. It was simply another way they were polar opposites after all, Sansa with her silly songs of romance and shining knights, Arya with her muddy dresses and leaves in her hair.</p><p>But since Jon and his Dragon Queen had arrived in Winterfell, Arya had been distracted, off in a way that Sansa recognizes from her own youth, trailing after Theon or Smalljon Umber for weeks with cherry red blush staining her cheeks. </p><p>(The less said about her infatuation with Joffrey the better.)</p><p>The only question is who had captured her baby sister’s attention? Who in all of Westeros was interesting enough to bring back glimpses of the mischievous, playful little girl Arya used to be, rather than the sullen assassin she’s grown up into? There’s a part of Sansa that wants to knight such a man immediately for returning her sister back to herself, though another part wishes to banish him from her home before he can break Arya’s fragile heart.</p><p>However, this is one topic that she has no clue how to broach with her guarded sister, so she puts a pin in her contemplations and focuses instead on the accounts of grain storages sitting on her desk. It’s not until later in the evening that she is reminded again of Arya’s curiously preoccupied state, when Ser Davos mentions seeing her around the forge as he was checking on the smith he’d introduced to Jon.</p><p>The one time she tries to bring it up to Arya leads her to less than satisfactory answers. Her probes about what has been occupying her sister’s time just leads to discussion about the materials and men needed in the forge, as well as the closest Sansa thinks Arya has ever come to rhapsodizing over the gorgeous weapons Jon’s new blacksmith produces. With a sigh, Sansa lets herself be distracted, instead happy that Arya is so passionate about something, even if she doesn’t exactly understand her predilections towards blades.</p><p>And then it’s the last night before the world ends, and Sansa has lost her sister. They’d both been at the final meeting to organize the fight to come. Once it was over, Sansa had turned around for only a second, but Arya was gone, lost in the chaos of everyone preparing for their last night. Bran was back in the Godswood and Jon was inevitably with the queen, so she’d wanted to spend her possibly final hours with her sister, trying to fit all the time they’d lost to simply be sisters into what few moments they may have left together.</p><p>So standing on the battlements, Sansa waits. She waits for the dead to arrive, she waits for the battle to start, she waits for the coming loss of life and prays that she will not lose those that she loves. Most of all, she waits for her sister, needing to have a final moment together before heading to the crypts. </p><p>Then finally, Sansa sees her, stepping out of the back entrance to the forge. Just as Sansa opens her mouth to call out to her from above, another form exits, hands tugging a leather jerkin into place, hastily doing up a number of buckles along the front. She tenses, unsure what precisely had passed between them, but stops herself from panicking when she catches the smirk on Arya’s face as she whips around to face the man.</p><p>And though she cannot hear whatever her sister says, Sansa can tell that she says something, because the tall man with black hair moves closer with a grin as Arya moves her hands over his chest, poking at him with familiarity. She knows she’s staring, but Sansa honestly cannot help herself at this point, mesmerized by this glimpse into a side of her sister that Arya has kept completely private.</p><p>Seemingly satisfied with her inspection, Arya lets him go, pivoting to make her way to the stairs. The man stands frozen on the spot where she left him, one hand lightly resting over the place where Arya’s fingers had been, before a change comes over his face and he rushes forward, grabbing Arya’s hand just as she reaches the bottom step. Arya turns back to the blacksmith, for Sansa finally realizes just why he looks familiar, and… </p><p>And oh. <em> Oh. </em> That certainly explains Arya’s constant hovering in the forge. </p><p>Her head is cradled in his hands like she’s the most precious thing in the world to him as they kiss softly, and Sansa silently prays that it’s true for her sister’s sake. They break apart, still pressed against each other as Sansa watches the smith’s lips move, too far away to truly understand what he says. </p><p>Arya goes up on her tiptoes once more for a more fervent kiss, breaking away only when the horns blow again. They separate, though Sansa can see longing looks from both of them as Arya climbs to the battlements and the smith jogs over towards the forge. She loses sight of him amidst the citizens of Winterfell rushing about, but sees her sister wipe a tear from her eye just before a steely mask takes over her face.</p><p>Sansa remains in place, turning to face the masses of men preparing to defend her home. Feeling her sister step up next to her, she looks to Arya out of the corner of her eye, her hands sure as she examines the bow and quiver of arrows at her station, face impassive as a statue. Rather than the impassioned plea to be careful she’d been planning on, Sansa decides to allow her playful side to surface, possibly the first time she’s done so with her sister since they’d left Winterfell for the first time all those years ago.</p><p>“He’s very handsome,” she states, voice as bland as if they were discussing nothing more important than the weather.</p><p>Her sister barely chokes out her, “What?” in response.</p><p>“Your blacksmith, he’s very attractive to look at, even if he’s a bit dirty for my taste. Lots of muscles and rather tall, taller than I’d expect you to go for, quite frankly.” The practiced nonchalance is absolutely worth it when she sees Arya freeze and slowly turn her head towards her with enormous eyes. Before she can open her mouth to respond, Sansa continues, “Oh yes, I saw you two coming out here together. Tell me, was he any good to you? Because from what I’ve heard, men that handsome rarely give much thought to their lovers. Podrick apparently being the rare exception.”</p><p>“I am not talking about this with you.” </p><p>“Who else are you going to talk to about it, hmm?” She smiles, and it’s a bit meaner than it ought to be, a little too similar to Cersei's mocking sneer for comfort. “Because I highly doubt Jon will be overly understanding about the fact that you fucked his favorite new blacksmith the night before we all might die.” </p><p>“Oh please! I’ve known him far longer than Jon! If anything, he’s my blacksmith, not Jon’s!” Arya’s mouth clamps shut after that outburst as she glares down at the dagger in her hands before thrusting it hilt first to Sansa, who takes it gingerly, tracing a hesitant finger along the smooth blade of dragonglass. “I made sure to grab that for you, just in case. If someone, or something I guess, comes after you, just remember to stick them with the pointy end.”</p><p>Swallowing back the bile that threatens to escape at the thought of having to deal with one of the wights’ rotting corpses that closely, Sansa nods. “The pointy end. Got it.”</p><p>Careful not to nick either of them with her new dagger, Sansa throws her arms around Arya in a swift hug, trying to put all the words she hasn’t figured out how to say aloud into the strength of her embrace. Another shout from the crowd on the plain before Winterfell reaches them, and they draw apart slowly. Arya turns to look out over the army, and tells her, “I think you should go now, it seems the battle’s about to begin.”</p><p>Holding tight to her sister’s hand, Sansa whispers, “Be careful Arya. I’ve already had to mourn too many, I don’t want to lose you too.”</p><p>“I will, I promise.” And with a final squeeze, they turn to their respective duties, both hoping they and their loved ones will live to see the dawn.</p><hr/><p>Knowing that Gendry is alive, and here in her home, makes Arya’s heart flutter in a way it hasn’t in years, not since the same man broke in a musty Riverlands cave. But that day hardly mattered now, not when he was here after so many years of thinking him dead. She’d seen him ride in with Jon’s party, looking almost like a Northerner, if not for his nearly shorn head and complete lack of beard. </p><p>It takes everything in her power not to run over and tackle him the moment she steps into the forge later, but he’s arguing with Clegane, who is armed and staring down at her blacksmith with contempt in his eyes, and honestly, why can’t she savor this reunion in peace?</p><p>So instead, she comes up behind Clegane and takes his focus away from Gendry. The Hound barks back at her, but there is far less bite to his words than she had been expecting, considering he brings up the time that she left him to die. He almost looks at her proudly as he slinks off to play with his new axe, whatever quarrel he wanted to start with her blacksmith forgotten.</p><p>Before Gendry can open his mouth again and ruin everything, Arya strides closer and punches him in the shoulder with all of her strength, causing him to yelp in shock and recoil slightly. “Arya, what–”</p><p>Jabbing a finger in his face, she declares, “That was for leaving me!” and then proceeds to launch herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and letting her feet dangle in the air as she embraces him. Muffled into his neck, she finishes, “And that was for coming back.”</p><p>His chest rumbles against hers with a wry laugh before he sets her down. Blue eyes sparkling with humor, a ridiculous smile breaks over his face as he simpers, “Yes, m’lady. Of course, m’lady. So sorry to have caused you worry, m’lady.”</p><p>“Oh gods, shut up you bull headed idiot,” she says with a far lighter smack to his arm, one she knows he must barely feel if his continued grin is any indication.</p><p>“I missed you too Arya.” One of his hands comes up to brush a thumb over her cheek, definitely smudging soot over her skin before he yanks it away, almost as an afterthought. His face is redder than it was only a few seconds ago, head bowed as he focuses on the scroll grasped in her hand, the half excuse she’d used as a reason to come seek him out when Sansa had wanted to know where she was sneaking off to with a smile on her face. </p><p>(If her sister believed the only thing capable of making Arya happy was a well balanced blade, then it seemed her perceptions were more suspect than Arya previously considered.)</p><p>(However, she’s hardly going to disabuse Sansa of that notion any time soon, if only to avoid all the inevitable lectures and knowing looks every time she spent time in the smithy.)</p><p>Squaring her shoulders, she tries to make the determination plain on her face. “I need a weapon, and I need you to be the one to make it for me.”</p><p>For a moment, she thinks he is going to refuse, going to tell her that a fight is no place for a lady such as herself. But instead, he smirks as he takes her rough drawing and says, “As you wish, Arya.” </p><p>Before he notices the blush staining her cheeks, he looks down at the double bladed spear she’s designed, finger tracing the plans and lips murmuring ideas to himself. It’s almost like it used to be, him so absorbed in his work as she watches. He tilts his head up again, and sees the melancholy look on her face. “Something wrong, do you want someone else to do it for you?”</p><p>“No, no of course not! Gendry,” she says as she places a reassuring hand on his wrist, “you’re the only one I trust to make this. I just wish we’d found each other again under better circumstances.”</p><p>“Well, I had to get to Winterfell somehow. Might have taken the long way, but here I am.” As he says the last bit, he raises his arms in a self-deprecating shrug that does nothing but draw her eyes to the way his muscles bunch along his shoulders. </p><p>While she’s distracted, he says something else, though for the life of her, she couldn’t tell you what it was. Blushing again like a little girl with her hand caught in the sweets, she stutters, “I’m sorry, what?” </p><p>He doesn’t call her out on her preoccupation, but his grin says it all anyways. “I said, you look good.”</p><p>Red as a flame, she mumbles back, “Oh, thanks, so do you.” And before she can expire entirely from embarrassment, she says her goodbyes, promising to come by again to catch up on their years apart. As she walks away, Arya impulsively twirls around, letting her cape swing freely just to snatch another glimpse of Gendry as he stares at her retreating figure.</p><p>Back in her bedroom, she flops onto her bed face first and covers her head with a pillow, so immensely glad that no one can see her in this state. It’s almost as if she’s reverted to the smitten girl in Harrenhal, so captivated by watching Gendry work. It’s freeing, and scary, and amazing, all at once, these butterflies fluttering around in her stomach for the first time in years. </p><p>Intellectually, she knows this is hardly the time to allow herself to become distracted by Gendry. For all that she cares about him, he could be a completely different person than the man she remembers holding her in his arms at night. But she can’t find it in her to care about that, instead deciding that she will get to know the man he is now, and let him in to see who she is now, so changed from the girl he once knew. He’d kept her secrets before, if there was anything she could trust hadn’t changed, it was that he would do so again.</p><p>So every waking moment she has free, she spends with him in the forge. Arya perches herself on Gendry’s work table as he hammers away, sits beside him to eat, and helps sharpen the blades that he makes. All the while, she asks him questions and answers his own in return, more honest with him than she has been with anyone since her father died. </p><p>It’s over a quiet dinner that she learns of the Red Witch, what she took from him and what she did. He tells her that the witch said Robert Baratheon had been his father, and in the flickering candlelight of his tiny room, she can see a slight resemblance in his deep, stormy eyes. Curled into his side as the darkness grows, she learns that Ser Davos Seaworth is the reason he survived it at all, and mentally promises herself to thank the man for doing so, even if he didn’t do it for her.</p><p>It’s over a sharp set of dragonglass daggers she’d testing that Gendry hears of the House of Black and White, and all she’d gone through in their name. His eyes grow tight at the mention of Jaqen H’ghar, though he doesn’t say a word to interrupt her, just puts down the spear head he was working on to focus all his attention on her. Arya only notices her shaking hands as she speaks of the Waif when Gendry closes a gentle hand over hers, lightly calming the tremors in her grip. </p><p>She takes his palm and rests it over the scars on her stomach as she tells him of how she left them, and the injury she’d survived. His breath is harsh on the back of her neck, his lips so close she can almost feel them on her skin as he stands behind her. Just as she starts to lean into him, there’s a shout and he steps away, the ghost of his touch sending sparks across her skin. She stares as he walks over to another smith, glancing back at her even as he shows the man how to heat the dragonglass properly. </p><p>Not every story is painful, a few are funny even, but mostly they show that he is the same man she’s always known, still stubborn as a bull and steady as a rock. Still too bloody handsome for his own good. </p><p>The only difference that she can see is that he might be looking at her the same way she looks at him, something more than just fondness in his eyes. Each touch feels like a shock, shivers running up and down her arms every time they brush against one another in his cramped space. She wants to kiss him, thinks that just maybe he’d let her, all that’s left to do is work up the nerve.</p><p>A week later, it all comes to a head. </p><p>They’re hiding away in the closet he calls his private quarters, eating the lunch she’d brought specially for him from the kitchens after realizing that he kept forgetting to eat while caught up in his work. This is her favorite part of the day, when she doesn’t have to put on a mask for anyone, not her sister nor her students in the training yard. No, she can just be Arya, laughing and talking about everything under the sun with the boy that makes her heart race faster with each passing day. </p><p>“Have you ever…” she trails off, suddenly unsure of the line of questioning she’d been so determined to follow this morning, after she overheard the way a few of the girls in the kitchen had been gossiping about the handsome head blacksmith, giggling about all the things they’d like him to do to them with his big strong hands and everything he might say in that lovely, deep voice of his. </p><p>His head tilted in curiosity, he looks up at her from where he was sitting on his cot. “Have I ever what?”</p><p>“Nevermind, it’s nothing.” Feeling the blush rise swiftly to her cheeks, Arya turns away, deciding to leave him in peace to finish his meal before she melted into a puddle of embarrassed goo. “I should probably let you get back to work, can’t fight the dead if we don’t have the weapons ready. So I’ll just–”</p><p>“Arry,” he says, voice so much closer than she thought. For such a big man, he was surprisingly light on his feet. Or maybe in her heart she knew she’d never have to worry about him coming up behind her. He catches her arm just before she can slip back out into the main forge, lightly spinning her around to face him as he backs them towards the wall next to his door. For all she knows that the forge on the other side of this wall is never quiet, all she can hear is the roar of her own heartbeat ringing in her ears.</p><p>Grip still firm on her wrist, Gendry reaches up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering on her cheek afterwards. He draws her chin up so he can stare straight into her eyes, some emotion she cannot fully fathom swimming in his own. His lips quirk in a small smile, and quietly he asks, “Arya, what do you want to know?”</p><p>Words caught in her throat, she looks everywhere except for at Gendry, so sure he will be able to tell exactly what she is thinking, just like he always has, as only he can. She could so easily fight her way around him, it would hardly take any effort at all, but she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want to leave the safety of this space between Gendry’s arms as she rests against a wall, with him towering over her with a teasing smirk on his face. </p><p>That safety, that knowledge that he is one of so few people she can trust not to stab her in the back is what leads her to blurt out, “Have you ever laid with a woman?”</p><p>“What?” He staggers back a step, as if her words have knocked the very breath out of him. But he closes the gap just as quickly, hands fluttering between them before he settles on grasping her upper arms. “Arya, no, I. No. No, I haven’t.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“What do you mean, why not?”</p><p>“Have you seen you?” Raising an eyebrow, she gives him an exaggerated onceover, letting her gaze linger on all the places she hasn’t allowed herself to think about seriously until this moment. “And all the serving girls here are certainly interested, I’m sure you’ve had plenty of offers, I even heard them talking about it earlier.”</p><p>“Shut up.” His ears have turned an endearingly bright red, and he looks far more surprised at the revelation than she thinks is warranted. “I just, I never found anyone I wanted to do that with. Or, I guess, anyone else I could ever see myself loving, not after… everything.”</p><p>At first she thinks he’s talking about the Red Witch again, and she opens her mouth to reassure him once more that nothing of that situation was his fault, the same way she’d done the day they’d discussed it in the first place, when another phrase catches her attention. “What do you mean, anyone else?”</p><p>“Arya, you have to know. I mean, I haven’t exactly been subtle about it since I came here.” One of his hands comes up to rub the back of his neck, a nervous habit she recognizes from years ago. “I just figured you were ignoring it so things wouldn’t be awkward.”</p><p>“What do you think I’m ignoring?” She thinks back over the time they’ve spent together, so confused as to what precisely he’s referring to. Is there another woman he wants to spend time with instead of her, and she’s been taking up all of his time? Has she been ignorant of signs that he doesn’t want to see her? Does he want her to leave now? No, nothing seems to add up. “Gendry, I don’t understand.”</p><p>“Arya, I lost my heart to you years ago, back when we were both still too young to know any better.” </p><p>“Really?” Hope rushes through her like a tidal wave as she tenses, every muscle prepared to spring if what she thinks she heard is true.</p><p>Blue eyes shine down on hers as he takes a deep breath, voice miraculously calm as he tells her, “It’s always been yours.”</p><p>Arya reaches for him, or maybe Gendry reaches for her. Either way, Arya’s first kiss ends nearly before it begins as their heads almost slam together, the only saving grace Gendry’s gentle hand on the back of her neck as he whispers hasty apologies against her giggling mouth. But they never truly part, instead slowly bringing their lips back together to taste and enjoy this stolen moment in Gendry’s little room off the forge. He guides her carefully, and she lets him, because even if she’d be the last to admit it, her only experience comes from the dreams that would wake her on steamy, restless nights in Braavos. </p><p>And if those dreams had always involved strong hands, stormy blue eyes, and sweaty black hair, well, no one needs to know.</p><p>But Arya’s a quick learner, always has been. Soon, she matches the movement of Gendry’s lips, accepting the way he tentatively traces her mouth with his tongue, opening herself up to him. After that, the room around her blurs, as his hands start to roam to places far more interesting than her waist, and those sparks she’s been feeling all week return with a vengeance, threatening to set her entirely aflame. </p><p>Arya follows his lead, finally allowed to explore all the tanned skin that’s been the subject of her fantasies, lets her nails rake light lines across his shoulders just as he moves his mouth away from her own. The protest on her lips dies as he begins to place firm kisses along her jaw, pausing at the junction of her neck to suck harder. A soft gasp escapes her when he bites down, the moan afterwards loud, causing him to return to her eager lips once more.</p><p>One of her hands runs up and down the back of his neck, stroking along the lines of muscles and tendons that years of work in a forge have built. They’re both breathing heavily, foreheads resting against one another, the world slimmed down to hold nothing more than her and him and the wall she is leaning back on.</p><p>As she smoothes her hand down his chest, she finally finds enough coherency to ask, “Where did you learn to kiss like that?”</p><p>Smirking, Gendry leans in and kisses her again, wet and filthy, like he wants to swallow her whole, then pulls her bottom lip with him as he draws back. “I said I was a virgin, Arya, not a saint.” </p><p>She kisses him again, just to get that stupid, self-satisfied look off his face, but it quickly blows up in her face when he lifts her up for a better angle, wedging himself between her now spread thighs. They’re basically at eye level now, or would be if either of them had their eyes open. Her legs wind their way tightly around his waist, her arms still wrapped around his shoulders, one hand in his hair as the other works its way down the back of his shirt. </p><p>He must take that as a sign, because while one of his hands remains firmly on her arse, the other wanders to the ties of her leather jerkin, those clever fingers of his managing to undo them one by one until he can reach inside. Pulling away from her mouth for a moment, he makes a questioning noise and moves his hand against the open laces, seemingly lost for words though she knows exactly what he’s asking.</p><p>“Gods, yes, please just touch me,” is all she can manage before dragging his lips back to hers, moan muffled as he palms her breast through her shirt. Rocking her core into him is pure instinct, and the grunt she receives in return makes her do it again, a little harder, a little closer. She can feel his cock hard between her thighs, straining tight against the front of his breeches, and she starts to sneak a hand down, so very tempted to feel explicitly what she’s doing to him. </p><p>But then he retaliates by pinching her nipple, and all thoughts leave her mind, instead thrusting herself into his touch desperately, panting into his mouth. His stupid, grinning mouth, that won’t close enough for her to kiss it properly. He pulls away, removing his hands from her until the only things holding her up are the grip her thighs still have on his waist, and sheer stubbornness.</p><p>“Get back over here and kiss me, you idiot,” she grumbles, still trying to bend him to her will with a pout. Finally realizing that he won’t be moved, she sighs in annoyance as she rests her head on his chest, half heartedly slapping his solid bicep as he chuckles and presses a kiss to the top of her head. He sets her back on the floor, thankfully still holding her up until her legs of jelly are stabilized. With a huff, she whines, “Gendry!” </p><p>“What? We absolutely cannot keep going right now, your brother is supposed to be coming by to check on the progress we’ve made quite soon, and I’d prefer for him not to find me ravishing his favorite sister.” The way he wiggles his eyebrows as he says that is utterly ridiculous, but she can’t help but be charmed as he pulls her back into his arms. He doesn’t actually do anything further, but she finds that simply being held is quite nice too, if not as fun. “I mean, I doubt I’ll be able to stop thinking about it anytime soon, but still I’d rather he not actually catch us doing anything.”</p><p>“Fuck, you’re right,” Arya sighs, admitting defeat even if her body still wants nothing more than to climb him like a tree. “Damnit, I don’t like it when you’re the logical one.” </p><p>“I know, but it had to happen at some point. Now, I need you to go before we do something that could get me hanged.” With a firm hand he puts space between them, biting his lip as he seems to reconsider. “Well, something else that could definitely get me hanged. I’m sure there are enough people who suspect I have feelings for you.”</p><p>“Are you talking about what you said before, when you said you weren’t being subtle?” </p><p>Gendry blushes a deep red at her question, the flush even reaching down into the open neck of his tunic. “Arya, you literally threw a set of knives at my head the other day, and I kept staring at you like a fuckstruck idiot. One of the other smiths had to smack me around the head to get me to pay attention after you left that day. So no, I was not being subtle about my interest in you. Pretty sure anyone who watched us while you’ve been here would say the same.”</p><p>Warmth spreads in her chest, different from the blatant lust she’d felt when she kissed him. This is what it feels like to be desired, to be treasured, to be wanted for exactly who she already is, she decides. With a smirk, she kisses him once more and strides out the door, already planning on how she will be returning the favor soon. Hopefully very soon.</p><p>And life in Winterfell goes on, the days growing shorter and colder as the inhabitants prepare for the coming battle.</p><p>Not that she’d ever admit it out loud, but her time spent in Gendry’s forge has felt more welcoming, more like home, than her cold, impersonal rooms have in the months since she made her way back to Winterfell. Arya knows that Sansa had done her best to reach out and try to get along with her sister, but she still flinched every time Arya appeared at her elbow, every time Arya got just a little too close behind the icy exterior Sansa had been putting on before the lords, every time she was reminded of the blood spilled by her little sister’s hands.</p><p>(That wasn’t something that Arya necessarily blamed Sansa for.)</p><p>(That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.)</p><p>But Gendry didn’t do that. Gendry’s normally grumpy scowl would be instantly replaced by a grin whenever she walked into the forge, setting down whatever he was making simply so he could focus all of his attention on her, no matter the raised eyebrows that earned him from the other smiths. He let her test all the daggers, swords, and spears that he made, running her fingers over his craft and listening to all her comments and suggestions. </p><p>Her own spear is a work in progress, a project that Gendry has been laboring over for days, trying to get the binding mechanism for the two halves to balance just right. He’s let her hold it a few times, asked her opinions on the blade length and which type of wood she wants, but for the most part has been slaving over it alone. She knows it will be perfect, there’s no doubt in her mind it will be better than anything she could have come up with by herself, simply because it will be made by him, and she trusts in no one's craftsmanship more than his.</p><p>But beyond the sheer comfort of being by Gendry’s side, their physical relationship has grown in leaps and bounds as the days have gone by. She knows the way he tastes now, knows what his face looks like as he falls apart under her touch, knows the words that turn his eyes from blue to black at a moment’s notice. And he knows the same, can stroke her to crescendo like the finest bard does his lute, and he does it all with a look on his face she can say with almost certainty is love.</p><p>They steal moments in his room, each longer than the last, and though the other smiths have probably realized by now that something is happening between them, not a word has been said. The common people of the North seem to understand that happiness, brief as it may be, is something to be cherished in a way the nobles do not.</p><p>On the night before the end of the world, Arya has a choice. She can reminisce with her sister and Theon, look back on the past that shaped her into the person she is now, try to mend years’ worth of resentment and pain over the course of a few hours. Or she can find Gendry, and maybe get a glimpse of the future they probably won’t live to see. </p><p>It’s not much of a choice, really. Death is knocking on the gates of Winterfell, so for tonight, Arya Stark chooses to live.</p><p>She slips away after the final war meeting, frustrated over the lack of cooperation between the various factions of the living, and finding herself agreeing with Jaime Lannister of all people when he vehemently argues that sending the Dothraki to charge the undead is a terrible idea. But she is merely the youngest sister of the Lord of Winterfell, and he is a traitor at least twice over, if not more. No one with any power listens.</p><p>Watching Sansa stand there in the war room, glowering at the Dragon Queen but barely speaking a word cements the decision to seek out her blacksmith. She will find her sister before the battle, she will, but she needs to put herself first and let herself be happy, even if only for a while.</p><p>There’s something warm and terrifying brewing in her chest, a set of emotions she isn't sure that she wants to deal with yet, but gods if she doesn’t know that time is running short. She knows in her heart of hearts that <em> this is love </em>, this is the same kind of real and true love her mother had spoken of once. They’ve built it stone by stone, each piece of trust earned by blood and truth and pain and the knowledge that neither will ever give up on the other. This isn’t the fairy tale promised by a song, but something far better, something that will last forever.</p><p>But all those feelings rushing through her veins have no place here, in this freezing hell on earth as death marches ever closer. Love is for after the battle, after they both survive and she knows she doesn’t have to try and stitch herself back together if he dies. She locks it away, uses the lessons of the House to do her some good for once and compartmentalizes just enough so that she can fight without a constant fear for him bearing down on her.</p><p> Trust and the pulsing attraction between them? Those she can act on now, and so she goes to find her smith before their time runs out.</p><p>The forge is still full of various blacksmiths that have made their way here from across the North when she arrives, moments after Brienne tells them to finish their current projects before taking the last few hours before the battle to rest. Arya stays in the shadows, content to let the hardworking men trickle out until only one station is still occupied, that broad, familiar back still tense and strong as Gendry stands over his table.</p><p>Silently, she moves towards him, and though she doesn’t make a sound, he still turns around with a smile just before she can rest a hand on his back.</p><p>His voice is warm as he wraps her in his arms and tells her, “Was waiting for you to come find me.” Melting into his embrace, Arya closes her eyes and pretends for a moment that this is simply a normal day and she’s arrived to drag him out of his work and inside to have dinner with her, or rather, their family. </p><p>Pulling away just a little, she glances down at the gleaming, double headed spear laying in front of her, and falls a little more in love, that locked box in her chest growing even more full. “Shall I assume that’s the weapon you promised me?”</p><hr/><p>Stumbling through to the open air of the courtyard, it takes every piece of Jon’s hard-earned self control not to vomit at the sight that awaits. Covering his mouth, tears start to leak out as he takes in the piles upon piles of dead littering the grounds, the few survivors barely moving in their utter exhaustion. </p><p>Too afraid to risk seeing someone dear to him among the fallen, he turns towards the entrance to the crypts, the crypts where he’d promised the women and children safety, the crypts that are <em> full of countless generations of dead Starks </em>. He takes off at a run, tearing his way through the debris to reach the two family members who were supposed to be safe, praying his idiocy hasn’t cost his sisters their lives. Distantly, he realizes that men are following him, a clamor of voices echoing in the stone halls that lead to this place that has been sacred to his family, his mother’s family, for years. </p><p>Just outside the entrance is a large grouping of wights, silent and still on the ground, forever snarling in their final death. Jon pauses, horror stricken, before he wrenches them out of the way of the barred door, miraculously closed despite the evident beating it had taken. With a shout of Sansa and Arya’s names, he begins to pound on the door, praying for an answer.</p><p>Finally, finally, after what feels like hours, he hears the barricade on the other side move, can hear each and every scrape of wood and metal. He backs away, wringing his hands together with his eyes clamped shut, terrified to see what has become of his people. A steady hand lands on his shoulder, familiar in a way that almost feels like his father, no his uncle, <em> no his father, Ned Stark shall always be his father, </em> and knows it can only be Davos, alive and well against the odds once more.</p><p>Then the crypt is open, and the first blur out has streaming red hair and throws herself at him, cries wracking her frame. His arms wrap around her after a moment of hesitation and confusion, because somewhere in the back of his mind, this wasn’t the sister he’d expected to survive should something happen. </p><p>Heart in his throat, he whispers into Sansa’s ear, “Where’s Arya?”</p><p>She leans back quickly, scared crystal blue eyes darting between his face and the crowd of Northerners behind him. “You mean, she’s not with you? You haven’t found her yet?” Sansa sounds shrill, terrified in a way he hasn’t seen before, not even at the prospect of facing Ramsey after her escape. </p><p>There’s something sharp digging into his back, and when he steps farther away, he can see it’s one of the dragonglass daggers the smiths had made by the hundreds. This one isn’t slick with the blood and gore of the recently dead, no this one is dusty, pieces of old, crumbling fabric only really sticking to the places where Sansa’s own sweat had wet the blade. Obviously, the crypts hadn’t been as safe as they’d hoped, and he’d sent his sisters down there. </p><p>Or rather, one of his sisters, the other still unaccounted for.</p><p>“Why would I have found her? She was supposed to be in the crypts with you, safe from the fighting!” </p><p>Exasperated, Sansa gives him a look so reminiscent of her mother it’s a little frightening. “Arya’s a fighter Jon, of course she chose to remain outside! Gods, did you speak with her at all once you got home? She helped Brienne to train the men for gods’ sake! There was no way she’d be content to stay hidden in the crypts. Not that it did us much good…” </p><p>Her rant trails off at the end as she turns back to the battered entrance of the crypts, where a maid is helping some of the castle children to climb out, one of the fresher corpses thankfully hidden under her skirts, out of the children’s sight. Jon sees that Tyrion and Varys have both survived, as have Missandei and Gilly, who clutches Little Sam tight in her arms. But he can tell there are far less people standing here than there ought to be.</p><p>“What happened in there?” he asks, very sure does not want the answer, but knowing that he must ask anyway.</p><p>“The same thing I expect occurred outside, the dead rose from where they lay and attacked.” She’s silent again, staring at the bedraggled survivors with haunted eyes. “It was horrible Jon. I think… I think one of the things that came after me,” her voice drops to a rough whisper, “I think it was Father.”</p><p>A loud sob escapes her, and Jon pulls Sansa back into his arms so she can hide her tear stained face in his chest. They sway together, letting each other feel their own pain before bottling everything up and putting on a brave face. With a quick nod, Sansa turns and starts to give commands to the servants that have made it out, directing them to begin preparing to care for the wounded in the Great Hall.</p><p>But Jon can wait no longer, he must know, one way or another, if he and Sansa are all that remains of their family. Taking Sansa’s hand, he leads her back towards the courtyard, too concerned about his own loved ones to consider the implications of leaving behind their people. He can hear footsteps following them, sees Davos and Tormund out of the corner of his eye as they twist through the winding passageways. He nearly barrels into an almost frantic Grey Worm, who merely brushes him off and keeps marching down to the crypts.</p><p>Then they are outside once more and somehow the stench of death has increased tenfold, the piles of dead so overwhelming Jon can barely see the living. Just as he’s about to lose his mind at the prospect of finding his baby sister among the dead, Brienne staggers over to their small party, her arms slung over the shoulders of Jaime Lannister and Pod, the trio somehow still alive after fighting side by side all night.</p><p>The blood splattered woman tries to bow, but her companions are struggling to keep her upright as is, so instead she merely inclines her head. “My lady, I saw your sister headed for the godswood just before the dead dropped. She’d lost half her spear, but she was still fighting tooth and nail. The last I saw of her she’d disappeared towards the trees.” </p><p>Murmuring her thanks, Sansa sends them off to the Great Hall, gently reminding Brienne that she must take care of herself. If the expression on the Kingslayer’s face is any indication, he will be making sure Brienne abides by that decree.</p><p>Hope finally back in her gaze, Sansa looks up at him in wonder. “She went to save Bran,” she whispers, though Jon isn’t sure the being in Bran’s body truly qualifies as his brother anymore. However, it is more than they knew a few minutes ago, so he allows himself to be led back towards where Bran had chosen to make his stand.</p><p>Around the clearing is a ring of dead Greyjoy soldiers, with the barely breathing body of Theon lying closest to the wheelchair in the center. </p><p>Jon has seen enough death to know there is no saving their former adoptive brother, but Sansa still has enough innocence in her that she rushes to his side and holds his hand, crying promises to save him into the fur of his collar. Theon tries to smile, but it’s a hard thing to watch, blood dripping out of the corner of his mouth with each shallow breath. Jon catches his eye from behind Sansa, giving the dying man a nod of thanks and forgiveness before turning his attention to the silent boy staring at him from under the weirwood.</p><p>“He never touched me,” the monotone voice that should be Bran’s says, as if that’s a consolation for all the lives lost this night. “She snuck up behind him, swift as a deer, quiet as a shadow, quick as a snake. Arya Stark killed the Night King,” and here he smiles, an expression so unnatural on his blank face it makes Jon take a hesitant step back. “She stuck him with the pointy end, just like you taught her.”</p><p>Shock courses through his veins, the mere idea of little gap toothed Arya to be the one to end the horror of the battle almost unimaginable. But then he thinks back to what Sansa said, thinks of the darkness he’d seen in Arya’s eyes when he’d asked her about Needle, thinks of the way she always seems to slip out of rooms, out of his sight as easily as breathing. And maybe there is something to this story, but he wants to hear it from her, not this shell that used to be his brother.</p><p>Clearing his throat, he manages to croak out, “So where is Arya?” By now Sansa had come to his side, her now bloody hand clutched in his own. </p><p>“She is safe, but she went to look for him after I told her I would be okay. He looks for her as well, and once they find each other…” Some of the haziness clears from his eyes, and Jon can see a little of Bran’s mischievousness shine through. “Sansa, you might want to send some hot water and food up to her rooms, since I doubt we’ll be seeing either of them anytime soon.”</p><p>Jon can hardly believe his eyes when Sansa <em> smirks </em> at Bran’s words, he honestly thinks it must have been a trick in the dim light of the dawn before hse responds, “Of course, I’ll make sure to send someone up. I’d do it myself if only to thank her, but there are some things I think would be better to remain unknown.” With that, she turns on her heel and marches back towards the castle proper, her shoulders back and face set with determination like the queen he thinks she might have been born to be.</p><p>Sputtering in confusion, Jon follows in Sansa’s wake as he pushes Bran’s chair forwards. Before he can even come up with a real question, Bran reaches back to place a hand on his arm, pulling his attention down. Grey meets grey as Jon takes in Bran’s solemn face.</p><p>“Arya fell in love with a bastard blacksmith years ago, and they were lucky enough to find each other here weeks ago. She took him to bed, she will marry him, and she will be happy.” His piece said, Bran turns forwards again and clearly expects the conversation to be over, as if he hadn’t just rocked Jon’s world to its very foundations for the second time in less than a week.</p><p>“WHAT?”</p><hr/><p>Standing atop the towering pile of dispatched wights, Gendry almost can’t believe the silence of the dawn. He’d thought he was done for, that no matter how hard he fought for a chance to live a life he still knew he couldn’t last forever, not against an enemy so tireless. Then just as he hears Tormund bellow in pain behind him over the wet slice of a blade, the dead finally fall, and they do not get back up.</p><p>As light breaks over the horizon, the survivors are dumbfounded, turning to look at each other in shock. From his perch, Gendry can see the pockets of fighters in the yard, so many fewer than he’d fought beside in the darkness. A swift, dark figure entering the area catches his attention, and soon he can tell it is Jon, rushing towards the keep from wherever he had ended up.</p><p>Tormund begins to dismount from their shaky tower and Gendry does the same after the giant of a man lands heavily on the ground, though he does not follow him to Jon. </p><p>Instead, he follows the tug in his gut that tells him to enter the godswood, some instinct pulling him in that direction. He’d lost track of Arya amidst the chaos of the fight, no clue where to even begin to search for her. But he knows she is alive, knows he would feel it somehow if she were to actually be gone.</p><p>At least, he hopes he would.</p><p>But for the moment, he enters the eerie stillness of the godswood, the sacred grove Arya had told him of as a homesick child and a nostalgic woman. She said she could barely stand to look at the trees here, convinced the old gods could have done something to save her father, brothers, mother, herself even. On an evening spent indulging in a little too much wine, she’d even said she wasn’t sure which gods to believe in anymore, not after seeing the power that could be given by the Red God or the God of Death.</p><p>Personally, Gendry didn’t have much of an opinion on the subject, for he’d never had much use for the gods over the course of his life. He trusted in the things he could see with his own eyes, could make with the skills he learned over an anvil. He believed that there was nothing in the world quite so true as Arya Stark, so no mere wight could have snuffed out her light.</p><p>The white bark and vibrant red leaves are beautiful in their own way, but all his attention focuses on the figure stumbling towards him through the trees. He almost starts to raise his gory mace from where it drags along behind him, but ends up dropping it just as quickly when the figure looks up and her eyes catch on his.</p><p>Arya looks just as rough and exhausted as he feels, if not moreso. There’s a cut on her forehead sluggish leaking blood, but other than that he cannot see any other visible injuries. Gendry is frozen where he stands, just drinking in the sight of her again, safe and sound, not that he’d allowed himself to believe otherwise for even a second. Then she’s rushing into his arms, her own weapons falling to the forest floor next to his as she leaps at him, her weight sending him backwards into a tree as he cradles her to his chest.</p><p>He wastes little time in kissing her, soft and slow, careful of the lip he’s pretty sure he bit through earlier. One of her hands cards through his hair and then stops suddenly, Arya pulling away to make a disgusted face at him. </p><p>“You’re even more filthy than usual, did you notice that?” she asks, wiping her now soiled hand on the bark of the tree behind him because his clothes are just as bad.</p><p>Grinning down at her, he leans in to smear his face against her own, laughing as she bats him away half-heartedly. “Not sure if you were paying attention m’lady, but some of us just fought in battle.” He tilts back, taking in her now even more dirty face, and thinks she’s never looked so beautiful to him. Before the battle, he’d thought the same thing in a daze as she lay snuggled into his side on his now broken cot and had told her as much. She’d gently placed a finger to his lips as he tried to continue, telling him to leave those declarations for after the war, when they had time enough to live.</p><p>As she always seems to, Arya reads his mind, and whispers, “I love you,” as she teasingly rubs his nose with her own in innocent affection.</p><p>“I love you too, so much Arya.” His heart beats so loudly in his chest he’s amazed she can’t hear it. Flexing his hand holding her up, he pulls her in tighter. “I didn’t think I would ever love someone as much as I love you.” </p><p>They kiss again languidly, but eventually his legs start to scream from supporting both of their combined weight after such a long night. Wordlessly, he sets her down but keeps one of her hands secure in his as they both gather their weapons. Turning to look at her, he raises an eyebrow, letting her decide where they will go.</p><p>A delicate smile is all the warning he gets before she pivots on her heel and leads him deeper into the woods, away from the place where he’d entered, where they can now hear voices outside. Instead, she brings them to a far more secluded door, more of a gate really, where the foliage hiddens the ironwork almost entirely from casual view. He wrenches it open for them, following her through into an empty corridor.</p><p>Three turns to the left and one to the right, and they find themselves at the bottom of a stairwell filled with cobwebs. She doesn’t reach for the torch near the entryway, just pushes forward, letting him stumble his way upwards behind her in the darkness. He finally has to let go of her hand in order to catch himself against the wall when he misses a step for the third time. He can hear the disembodied giggle just ahead of him, before suddenly candlelight fills his vision, and he finds himself in what must be her personal quarters.</p><p>Grumbling to himself, he sets his mace against the wall and starts to shuck his grimy outerwear before he can ruin any of her finer furnishings. “We couldn’t have used stairs that I could see?”</p><p>Even though her back is facing him, he can practically hear the way Arya rolls her eyes. “Of course not, because then other people could see us. No one here even remembers the old servant stairs anymore, and this way we could get up here without seeing anyone.”</p><p>Normally, he would be happy not to be forced to speak with people (or let anyone explicitly see the relationship he has with Arya, but that is an entirely different subject), but such avoidance seems unlike Arya. At least, the Arya he knows who was so concerned about the wellbeing of her siblings before the battle had begun.</p><p>Reaching out, he placed a hand on her shoulder and gently spun her around. “Are you sure you don’t want to go find Jon, or Sansa and Bran? I know you were worried about them earlier.” </p><p>“No, I already saw Bran and he said they were both fine. I’d rather just stay here with you.” She’s tucked her face into his neck, suddenly no longer caring about the mess he still is. </p><p>But she’s avoiding something, he knows she is, so he tilts her chin up to look Arya directly in the eye. “Arya, what aren’t you telling me?” She leans in close and mumbles something unintelligible against his shirt. “What? Seriously, Arya, just tell me what’s wrong.”</p><p>She huffs out an exasperated breath before saying clearly, “I’m the one who killed the Night King. There, happy now?”</p><p>And while a part of him had been so incredibly sure that it would have been Jon to slay the creature, if only because he seemed so hellbent on doing so, a larger part of Gendry finds he isn’t surprised at all. There was no one more full of life than Arya Stark, no one more likely to stare Death itself in the face and come out on top, no one else so bloody stubborn as her. Of course she did it, because who else could?</p><p>Completely lost for words, the only way he can think of to express the sheer admiration he feels for her in this moment is to haul her close and kiss her, using his lips to form actions rather than words he would no doubt stumble over anyways. Breathlessly, he pulls away and caresses her cheek, so sure she can see all the love and joy in his gaze.</p><p>She looks up at him with wonder on her face before it transforms in an instant and she pushes him away. “No, stop looking at me like that! I don’t want you to look at me like I’m some hero, I just… I did it to save my brother and all of us, not for you to look at me like the sun shines out of my arse!”</p><p>Thoroughly perplexed at her rather sudden change of emotion, Gendry carefully steps forward again, catching her hands in his. “Love, I always look at you like this, thought you’d realized that by now.” Towing her closer, he brushes the messy hair that’s fallen out of her braid away from her eyes. “I think you’re wonderful, yes, and I love you. That has nothing to do with any kings you’ve killed or battles you stopped, I promise. I loved you long before all of this happened, and I’ll love you long after.”</p><p>This time she definitely kisses him first, surging up on her toes to drape her arms around his neck. All too soon, he breaks away to lift her up and rest her against the wall. Smirking, he adds, “And I swear I don’t think the sun shines out of your arse,” playfully squeezing the aforementioned body part through her pants, “no matter how lovely I think it is.”</p><p>“Bastard,” she grins.</p><p>Teasing, he simpers, “My darling lady says such sweet things.”</p><p>“Asshole,” she laughs.</p><p>“Oh stop, you’ll make me blush like a maiden.”</p><p>“And we both know that’s not true anymore.” Incidentally, they both flush at the memories of last night, an encounter that seems so long ago in the light of the dawn. It had been fumbling sure, maybe even a bit uncomfortable for Arya as they figured out how their bodies fit together, but he thinks it had been rather great in the end. They had managed to break his cot, and he thought that kind of destruction automatically assumed greatness.</p><p>Arya lifts him from his reverie when she runs a hand over the laces at his neck. “We should get out of these clothes, then maybe get into something more comfortable?” She gestures for him to set her down, which he does, and she moves over to sit on a nearby chair and starts untying her boots.</p><p>Furrowing his brows, Gendry looks around her room for any indication that she’s stolen his extra sleep clothes from his quarters somehow in the last few days, but there’s absolutely nothing to suggest it. “Not sure where exactly you think I’ll be getting other clothes way up here, but–”</p><p>He’s cut off by a loud snort, but doesn’t turn around in an attempt to save face. “I meant the bed, genius.” </p><p>“Right, I definitely knew that.” </p><p>“Uh huh, keep telling yourself that.” Any chance he had of responding verbally is lost when a piece of fabric comes sailing over his head to land in front of him. A piece of fabric he can easily recognize as Arya’s shift. Haltingly, he turns to face a very, very naked Arya, who is smirking at him from her position propped up against one of her bed posts. “You might want to catch up, Gendry. I’d hate to have to get started without you.”</p><p>Tearing his shirt over his head, he somehow finagles his way out of his boots and breeches before he reaches her in seconds, tackling Arya into the featherbed as she starts to giggle hysterically. </p><p>Later, they’ve been lying in her bed for who knows how long as the sheets cool around them, when all of a sudden Arya’s head pops up from where it had been resting over his heart. “We should get married.”</p><p>Blinking rapidly, Gendry mentally goes over her words in his head, and yes, he did hear correctly. Sitting up slowly, he tries to say this as carefully as possible. “I mean, I’m certainly not opposed, but are you sure?”</p><p>“Sure that I want to marry you?” Arya’s looking at him like he’s an idiot again, a frown on her face as she pulls the sheets tighter around herself. “Have you be mine and I’ll be yours, forever? Yes, I’m rather set on the idea actually.”</p><p>“I just…” he struggles to put his own insecurities into words, tries to boil down all the things that have been imprinted inside his head for years, longer than he’s ever known her. That he’s not good enough, that bastard boys shouldn’t be stealing kisses from princesses, that his touch dirties everything that comes near him. “I love you, so much. I just don’t want you to regret this, regret me.”</p><p>Head shaking vehemently, Arya throws a leg over his lap and cups his face in her hands as she hovers over him. “Never, I could never regret you Gendry.” She pecks his lips lightly once, twice before pulling back to sit daintily in his lap. “I love you, and I want you to be mine. So will you marry me Gendry? Become Gendry Stark, and make me the happiest woman in Westeros?”</p><p>Resting his head on hers, he whispers against her lips, “Yes,” before surrendering to her mouth and falling backwards onto the pillows.</p><hr/><p>Watching Sansa and Jon argue in the family solar is a familiar sight to Bran, who has unfortunately been forced to act as a moderator every time the two begin to butt heads, their sister completely uninterested in acting as a go-between for an argument she considers moot anyway. </p><p>For the Three Eyed Raven, the scene runs parallel to another argument, one between a Stark wolf and Tully trout, another argument about a different dark haired bastard boy, not the same one Sansa and Jon can’t figure out how to deal with. </p><p>Because it is Arya’s blacksmith love that divides their family, as one sibling wants to grant him a keep within the North and the other plans to have him legitimized by his Dragon Queen. Neither has thought to ask his opinion on the matter, nor the woman it would affect just as heavily. Both assume they know best, weighing their own experiences in a way that makes any others easily lose. </p><p>The woman in question who the Three Eyed Raven knows has already determined the course of action that she and her lover will take, who had walked into this room happy to share her own news before being blindsided by the argument happening in front of them now.</p><p>Bran turns to his sister and smiles, the muscles in his face unused to such action, though it prompts a smile in return from Arya. Before she can open her mouth, he puts his hand on her own where it lays on the table between them and squeezes it softly. “Congratulations,” is all he says, but it is enough to bring the light back into her eyes, uncharacteristic tears shining there as she stands and hugs him gently, sniffling into his hair.</p><p>She steps back and wipes at her eyes, laughing lightly as she says, “Sorry, I’m not sure what came over me. I guess I’m just excited that someone at least is happy for me, even if you didn’t let me say it myself.”</p><p>The Three Eyed Raven knows why Brandon Stark’s younger older sister feels the way she does, already can see the future being written as Brandon Stark speaks with his smiling sister. But Bran decides that this is a secret he can keep, this is a joy that can be allowed to be discovered naturally. It will not affect the future if Arya learns her own secret here in the family solar or in a month with her husband beaming down at her in their rooms, his hand caressing her stomach with wonder in his eyes.</p><p>Looking up at his sister, the part of Brandon Stark that is still Bran feels delighted at the idea of the pack growing larger here at the place he calls home, rather than losing his sister to the South or to the rebuilt Moat Cailin that Sansa dreams of constructing. Neither future would be bad, not exactly, but this one will be best.</p><p>His sister will live happily with the man she loves, and they will give him plenty of nieces and nephews to tell stories to. His own future is murky, but the Three Eyed Raven can see that there is little to tie him to this mortal world, little that can keep him from floating away in the soulless ether that surrounds them. The Three Eyed Raven knows that Brandon Stark’s younger older sister is one of two keys that can keep them grounded, but the other has left Brandon Stark, just as Brandon Stark left her.</p><p>The Three Eyed Raven knows it is to blame for the abandonment of Meera Reed, for Brandon Stark had internally raged at every blunt, cold word the Raven had thrown her way, trying so hard to drive away the woman that had cared for them so. Trying so hard to keep the woman that had cared for them so safe from the Walkers and the wights and the Night King himself, for he saw a future where she died for him in front of the great heart tree, only moments before the Dawn Wolf would attack. The Raven had done its job too well, for it cannot see a near future when Meera Reed will want to return to Winterfell.</p><p>But that doesn’t mean the Raven does not continue to search for one.</p><p>In the physical world, Bran cocks his head to his sister, apologizes for upstaging her news in a voice just loud enough to cut into the argument of Jon and Sansa across the room. They both turn to their younger siblings, questions on their faces, though Jon is the one to voice it out loud.</p><p>Arya looks over at them with a soft smile on her face as she says, “Gendry and I are getting married, tonight in the godswood. I’m going to make him a Stark.” Both of their elder siblings stare in shock, before smiles overtake their own faces at the neat solution Arya and her blacksmith have found to their conundrum. Sansa opens her mouth to voice her elation, and Bran is pleased.</p><p>Content that his beloved sister has finally been allowed to share her happiness, Brandon Stark cedes control of their body to the Three Eyed Raven and lets his eyes go white, letting the past and present and future all flow through their mind.</p><p>The Three Eyed Raven flies over to the Dragon Queen’s quarters, where she holds court with her people surrounding a map of Westeros, her pointed finger resting just to the south of King’s Landing. The Raven sees the way that Tyrion Lannister has paled dramatically, fingers tightly gripping the arms of his chair as he stares down the Master of Whispers, who looks a little too green.</p><p>The Targaryen girl shares her plan to legitimize the Baratheon bastard at dinner tonight, outlining exactly why doing so shall win over more of the Northern men to her cause, all with an air rather like that of a cat who has just caught an extremely fat canary. No one objects, not a word is said in opposition to her plan, too scared of their own leader to voice the reasons why a southern blacksmith will do little good here in the North.</p><p>Well, as far as these men know. Soon, that blacksmith will be a part of the highest family in the North, and completely out of the reach of such plans. But they do not know that yet. The Three Eyed Raven knows though.</p><p>A knock on the door. The Dragon Queen exhales loudly at the interruption, waving a hand at her general to open the door for the page outside. Shaking, the boy hands over the missive sealed in Stark grey, the wax still warm. </p><p>Missandei of Naath opens it, scanning it quickly before telling her queen that none of the Starks will be attending dinner tonight, and had instead chosen to eat as a family in their private solar. The Dragon Queen’s smile freezes for a moment, caught off guard by the news and somewhat hurt that Jon Snow had not invited her to such a gathering, but she quickly shakes it off. Instead she shall focus on her coming triumph tonight, as well as all the ones that will swiftly follow.</p><p>The Raven can see what will come of tonight, can already see the blow the error will cost Daenerys Targaryen, how the loss of a potential pawn to her rival’s side hurts more than most will see. But Gendry will be fine, happily ensconced in Arya’s arms and Arya’s name by the time the Dragon Queen’s rage becomes known to the Starks.</p><p>When Brandon Stark returns to his body, his sisters are arguing over Sansa’s desire to see Arya in a wedding dress, Arya already having lost the debate over whether she truly needed a maiden cloak, seeing as she wasn’t technically a maiden anymore. Jon is seated at the table with him, a half empty glass of brandy in his hand as he attempts to ignore the implications of the arguments made by his favorite sister.</p><p>Smiling to himself, Bran utters aloud, “The more things change, the more they stay the same,” and promptly gestures for his own glass, because there are certain activities the Raven has seen that little brothers never should.</p><hr/><p>But there is another soul with Stark blood within the walls of Winterfell, even if their presence shall not be felt for several more weeks. They have no thoughts, feel nothing much at all really, but they are there. As the youngest Stark girl and her new blacksmith husband sleep in their marriage bed, one of his hands rests low on her waist, just beneath a set of scars that didn’t do quite as much damage as their owner had been led to believe. </p><p>A new start is coming to life under his palm, a promise of good things to come as Arya twines her fingers with Gendry’s, a silent smile stretched across her lips as her husband presses a sleepy kiss to her hair. </p><p>Wind and wolves howl outside their window in the dark of the night, but the harsh snows have stopped, and soon the green of spring will roll over the plains of the North. The Dragon Queen will turn South, where the warmth of her fires shall do nothing but fan the flames of the sadness and the madness that have already taken hold. But in the cold North, the pack will grow and wait patiently for the wheel to turn once more, happy to bide their time and raise spring babes on tales of the Silent Wolf, the Young Wolf, the White Wolf, the Red Wolf, the Dawn Wolf; on all those who had shed blood for their land and their freedom. </p><p>For the North knows no Queens but the Queens in the North whose names are Stark.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>